


I've Heard That Song Before

by Nectere



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Peggy Carter, F/F, F/M, Female Bucky Barnes, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Nonbinary Bucky Barnes, Nonbinary Character, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 00:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6729265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nectere/pseuds/Nectere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamesina Buchanan Barnes was supposed to be a boy, but that never bothered her, since she didn't usually feel like one. Of course, that lead to trouble like getting drafted or going to jail because you had been paying your taxes as "James" forever, or your best friend (who you wanted to be your best guy) falling for a British chick, and the best idiot in your platoon mooning over "Jemma Grant from Jersey." Throw in a war, HYDRA, falling from a train, multiple trips into ice, reprogramming, torture...and well, the course of true love never did run smooth: especially for heroes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ain't Misbehavin'

Jamesina Buchanan Barnes was supposed to be a boy. Everyone had told her mother when she was pregnant that it was ‘obviously’ going to be a boy.They had dangled rings over Lizzie Buchanan's stomach, and older women at the silk mill had commented on how low she was carrying. They were so sure she was going to be boy that at the time she was born, they had prepared absolutely no names for a girl. A kindly Scottish nurse had suggested they just call her Jamesina, and old-fashioned though the name was, it stuck. Well, slightly.

Jamesina didn’t mind that she was supposed to be a boy, or that her name was an afterthought. If she was honest, she didn’t _feel_ like a girl very often. They never treated her like she shouldn’t have been a girl, and Mom tried often enough to get her to sew and cook and gossip, but she wasn’t very interested in it, and between work at the silk mill and four girls, Lizzie just didn’t have enough energy to argue about her eldest's tomboyish nature. Pop tried too, but he had never come back right from the Great War, and would be the first to admit it. Some days it was hard for him just to get out of bed.

So, she did what she wanted, and she tried to help. A haircut and some very comfy, if overly starched trousers and she could easily be ‘he.’ James Buchanan Barnes had it a lot easier than Jamesina. He found odd jobs running packages or sweeping floors after school, bringing home a few extra coins to make things easier at home. Soon it was all around town that that young Bucky Barnes was a good hard worker, with a strong back. That’s how he met Steve Rogers, sweeping the floor of Old Man Ellis’s barber shop.

He had opened the door to push the remnants of haircuts out the door into the alley, only to come face to face with some of the bullies a year above him in school trying to take a wiry kid’s money. The kid wasn’t giving in, though, wildly swinging punches in a way that had Bucky wincing at bad form. Pop wasn’t good for much, but he had taught all his kids how to throw a punch.

Bucky stepped in, of course, and thrashed both of them easily, they were older and a bit bigger, but they weren’t prepared for someone to come busting in on their hustle.

“I coulda handled it.” The skinny kid says, and Bucky grinned. “Sure could.” He agreed, giving the kid a hand up. “But it wouldna have been right for me to let you go it alone. Two on one ain’t fair.”

The skinny kid smiled at him like he’s just found the one good person in the world, “I’m Steve Rogers.” He says, holding out a grimy and dirty hand.

“Bucky Barnes.” He replied, and they shook on it.

* * *

 Steve Rogers never expected to see Bucky Barnes again, or at least not anytime soon, since they had discovered they were in different classes in the overfilled school nearby, but shortly after he had finished his homework, there was a knock on the apartment door, and a voice saying in the small front room. “Hello, Mrs. Rogers, ma’am. I was wondering if Steve could come out to play.”

After that, they were inseparable. Any time Bucky wasn’t working or helping Mom and Pop with the girls, he was out running Brooklyn with Steve, exploring the docks or slipping around the borders of Hooverville. They shared so much that Bucky forgot that Steve didn’t know she was a girl under her clothes. Bucky had never thought to mention it, because he never thought about it until he woke up ever so often feeling like a girl. It happened now and then, and Bucky took it in stride as she did everything.

So, Steve was surprised when he stopped by Bucky’s to find him for the day, that he found a girl with scrubbed cheeks in a dress with cabbage roses and curls answering the door. He thought he had met all of Bucky's sisters. “Uh, sorry Miss, I was just looking for Bucky.”

“Stevie, you loon!” Bucky chortled despite herself, shaking her head. “It’s me!”

Steve’s eyes went wide, his mouth dropped open and he paled considerably, feeling his lungs tighten in surprise. “Bu...Bu...Bucky?” he managed, before doubling over and starting to wheeze.

The amused look on Bucky’s face quickly disappeared, replaced with stricken panic. “Hey, punk, don’t do that.” She said worriedly, unsure of what to do, and out of instinct, rubbing his back. “I didn’t mean to surprise ya. I’m sorry, _honest_. I’ll go put trousers on if it helps.”

Steve shook his head, slowly catching his breath and coming down from the scary flush on his face. “You're a girl?” He choked out as Mrs. Barnes appeared from the kitchen, holding out a glass of water to Steve. “Jamesina Buchanan Barnes, see what you’ve done? Come in and sit down, Steve, dear.”

Bucky looked chagrined but it was more out of causing her friend distress than anything else, even the use of her full name. “Being a boy is easier, most of the time.” She admitted. “I don't feel all girly very often.”

Steve sucked down the cold water, flushed as he remembered all the jokes and fights he and Bucky had had together, trying to square that with the idea of how his mother had taught him to treat a lady. “Where’d the hair come from?” He _knew_ Bucky’s hair hadn't been that long yesterday. It was strange, but Bucky was the best friend he had ever had, and he didn't want to give that up.

“It’s a sheitel. I got it from Mrs. Rubin, for coming to shut off her gas stove on Friday nights, after she accidentally left it on and almost burned the building down.” Bucky carefully extracted the half-wig from her real hair, and shook it out. “See?”

Steve nodded, wondering at how well it disappeared back into Bucky’s hair as he...she?...replaced it. Bucky looked nervous, and he wasn’t sure whether it was concern that he would keel over into another asthma attack or that he wouldn’t want to be friends anymore. Steve thought this was a bit silly, especially as Bucky had put up with his sickness and all the fights he got in, being a girl seemed like a whole let less to lose a friendship over, especially since she didn’t act like a girl most of the time. “Still wanna go out today, or ya stickin’ in to do some sewin’ or somethin’?”

“Ain’t hardly!” Bucky scoffed, with obvious relief. “Come on, let’s go.”

Life continued on, and Bucky and Steve continued to be inseparable and scrap with every bully on their side of the Hudson.  It was as if it was Steve and Bucky versus the world sometimes, though other times it was quiet enough. Mrs. Rubin would always sneak the pair cookies when they popped into the deli, and Mrs. Rogers loved both Bucky and Bucky’s cousin “Jemma from Jersey.”

Bucky was there with Steve through scarlet fever and pneumonia, not caring what the doctors said, reminding Steve that under no circumstances was he allowed to die, and Steve was there for Bucky when she overheard his parents’ arguing about how she was  ‘strange and abnormal.’ No matter what happened, they were always sure that there was at least one person who would have their backs, ‘til the end of the line.

Then came war.


	2. Safe and Sound

Pearl Harbor changed everything. The day had started as normal as any for Steve and Bucky, but they had no idea over eggs and toast in their shared apartment, how quickly things would change. They had discussed the war in Europe at length, horrified by what was going on, and making sure that their Jewish friends were not being hassled by anyone, debating whether America should enter the fray.

There was no debate when word reached them about what happened. Bucky had returned home early, sweaty and tired from work at the docks, to find a resolute Steve staring at the wall. He shrugged off his jacket and took off his boots, before sitting down on one of the worn chairs.

“It’s going to be war.” Steve said, without preamble. “I’m going to volunteer.”

Bucky wanted to say a million unsupportive things, but nodded instead. “We’ll talk about it after I’ve had a shower.” When she emerged from the shower, dressed in a sundress, short hair plastered to her forehead, she sighed and sat at the table, staring at the table. “I don’t want you to go.” She admitted. “But I know damn well I won’t be able to stop you.”

“It’s the right thing to do.” Steve said, resolutely. “You know it is.”

“Pop didn’t come back whole from the last one.” Bucky said quietly. “He’d hit the floor if there was a loud noise, and woke us up screaming more than once. One time Annie woke him too quickly, where he was sleeping in his chair and he almost strangled her.”

Steve knew Bucky was worried, he could tell from the tension in her shoulders and the way her face had gone completely blank. “It’ll be okay, Buck.”

Bucky pushed back from the table and paced around the room. He didn’t dare mention the fact that her Pop had been one of the _lucky_ ones, that Steve’s hadn’t even made it home. She was not willing to entertain the idea of Steve dying. She hadn’t tolerated the idea when he was sick, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to tolerate the idea of him dying in some goddamn war, who knows where. “All right.” She said finally. “All right, but first we need to train you.”

“I’m pretty sure the army does that, Buck.” Steve said in amusement.

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you and a squadron of enlisted soldiers. Who knows how they’re going to be handling everyone who's running to enlist? They might just be stuffing you in uniforms and shoving a rifle in your hands. I’ll support you, Stevie, because I know you’re not going to give up, but let me train you first. I’m the three-time welterweight champion here, don’t be a punk.”

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to be a jerk about it.” Steve said with a grin, relieved that Bucky had accepted it and wasn’t going to fly into a rage or start crying, though he definitely preferred a rage to the crying. He hated when Bucky cried. He had cried once, briefly, when Steve’s mother had died, before pulling himself up by the bootstraps and turning into the best support Steve could have asked for, but the other time he had felt helpless to fix it. Shortly after Sarah Rogers death, when Bucky had moved in, Lizzie had not handled it at all well, declaring that no matter how much she liked Steve, Bucky wasn’t going to move into an apartment with a man, while _unmarried_ , and if she did, Lizzie wouldn’t see her again. Bucky had stubbornly moved in, and when he had dropped by the house the Sunday after, Lizzie had refused to open the door, leaving Steve with a Bucky-shaped mess that had cried itself to sleep. He didn’t want to go through that again. Bucky crying made him feel as if his world had been tilted on its’ axis.

* * *

 Steve thought Bucky would go easy on him, that he would just run him through some basic calisthenics and accompany him to the recruitment center. He didn’t think he could have been more wrong. Suddenly, Bucky was resolute, waking up hours earlier to drag Steve to Goldie’s Boxing Gym for far more advanced maneuvers than they had ever used in back alleys. The only time  Bucky gave an inch was when Steve doubled over, checking whether it was an asthma attack, which meant they would stop for awhile, or just some sort of muscle spasm, which meant that they fought through it.

At first the people there seemed amused by Bucky’s insistence, until someone overheard Bucky lambasting Steve, asking if he thought he was going to manage to knock any Nazis out like that, and suddenly the trainers, boxers, and gym rats all wanted to see Steve succeed, all offering their own training regimes, and tips and tricks they were sure would work. He tried them all, and two weeks later, he and Bucky walked to the nearest recruitment center, both fighting the urge to talk about what might happen ‘over there.’ It was the first time in a long time that Steve could remember not knowing what to say around Bucky.

“What will you do when I’m gone?” He asked quietly, as they walked.

Bucky had been thinking about that. It would look odd and almost traitorous to most people, if stringy little Steve Rogers with the asthma and a host of other problems went off to war for his country, and his best friend and local boxing champ didn’t. “Jemma will just have to watch the apartment until we can come back.” He remarked with a shrug. “I’ll find a job as a secretary or something. Maybe Mom will finally speak to me again, who knows.”

Steve frowned, but didn’t say anything about the plan. “Well, Mrs. Rubin and Mrs. Cohen will look out for you.”

“Steve, I can boil things just as easily as you can.” Bucky teased, bumping him with his shoulder.

“If you’re complaining about my cooking, you can do it tonight.” Steve shot back.

The two of them continued in the old banter back and forth until they reached the recruitment center. It loomed in front of Bucky like a specter and he leaned over and hugged Steve. “Good luck, punk.”

“Don’t need luck.” Steve replied, returning the hug. “Some jerk spent two weeks trying to put me through basic.”

“Go on, get!” Bucky replied, slapping him away in feigned annoyance. “I’ll be here.” He leaned with effect against the wall, as if he was completely cool, calm and collected inside, when he was anything but. Two weeks of hard training had not eased his mind that his friend would survive in a war. He half-wished for a cigarette, even though he had never gotten into smoking since it made Steve’s asthma play up.

Somehow, Bucky managed to hide his relief when Steve came out of the recruitment center, angrier than Mr.Cohen’s tiny, spitting dog. “4F!” Steve said angrily. “He wouldn’t even look at me!”

“Rough break, Stevie.” Bucky replied. “Guess that’s that, then.”

“Aw, hell naw!” Steve replied, stomping away. “We’re going to keep up training and I’ll try again!”

Bucky felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but followed Steve home, trying to talk him out of whatever harebrained scheme he had convinced himself of now. As usual, he was less than successful.

* * *

 It was only a few weeks later that when Steve returned from yet another recruitment center, doing yet another imitation of the Cohens’ dog, ranting that he realized this time Bucky didn’t say anything. No commiseration or empathy for yet another rejection, or anger that he was putting himself risk at being jailed. “They let Lee in! _Lee!_ The numbskull who’s blind in one eye because he stabbed hisself in the eye with a pocketknife!”

“Mmmm.” Bucky hummed, staring out the window.

Steve’s anger evaporated into concern. He had never seen Bucky like this. “What’s wrong, Buck? Is it your family?”

Bucky laughed and pulled out a letter, beginning to read. “You are hereby notified that you have been selected for training and service in the Army...”

Steve snatched the letter out of Bucky’s fingers in amazement, thinking that perhaps he wouldn’t have to go to yet another recruitment center, until he saw the typewritten name on the form. “You can’t go to war!” Steve said, horrified. “They can’t draft women!”

Bucky shrugged. “I guess being employed and paying my taxes as James is coming back to bite me in the ass.”

“But you don’t want to go!” Steve said, somewhere between jealousy and terror. What would happen to Bucky if the Nazis got ahold of her and they found out she was a woman? “Just tell them the truth, that you’re Jamesina Barnes and…”

“Go to jail for fraud?”  Bucky shot back. “Or worse, thrown in some psych hospital for being ‘strange and abnormal?’” She shook his head. “I may not want to go like you do, but at least at the end of this war, I’ll have a chance to come back home if I do.”

Steve’s shoulder’s slumped. “What if they find out you’re a girl?”

Bucky tried to smile. “Hey, if they’re blind enough to take Lee, they must not be looking too damn close. No one’s sussed me out in years. I’ll be fine.” She was trying to put a brave face on it, trying not to admit how very scared she really was. Suddenly, just as she was starting to feel sick with nerves, Steve had wrapped his arms around her, and was hugging her hard.

“You be careful, Buck. You hafta come home.” He muttered into her shoulder. “I’ll make it over there to you some way, you’ll see.”

“Until you do…” Bucky asked, feeling her throat closing over, feeling silly and stupid for even wanting to as, for _having_ to ask. “Can I write to you?”

“You better, Bucky.” Steve muttered into her shoulder. “You better write me every damn chance you get.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Steve mentions about 'Lee,' is in fact a true story about my great-uncle, who served in the European theater. I have a lovely cameo bracelet he sent my grandmother from Italy. His mother raged for weeks that he shouldn't have been accepted since he was in fact, blind in one eye from jabbing a pocketknife in it.


	3. Letters

My Dear, Steve

Whoever decided that training in the middle of Wisconsin in the middle of winter was a sadist. It’s cold and miserable here at Camp McCoy. My fingers are nearly frozen writing this letter, but I’m still glad we didn’t end up at Camp Lehigh. Dad spent long enough there that the Barnes name is known, and God knows I look enough like the old man to raise questions. 

So far so good, I guess, if being bone tired all the time is something you would consider good. We’re up at four in morning, and then the DI makes us march ten miles in the mud and snow. Wakes you up faster than a cup of coffee, which is good, because the sludge they serve us here after the hike and claim is coffee doesn’t do shit. I never thought I’d actually  _ yearn _ for our tiny kitchen and your so-called cooking. 

Sorry I haven’t written before this, but they don’t really give you a lot of time to yourself. If you’re not marching, you’re training, or worse, digging foxholes. I will never complain about hauling boxes at the docks ever again, Stevie. I never knew digging a damn hole could be so damn hard. The ground is frozen solid and you’re pushing at it with this thing that can barely be called a shovel. Then there’s all the firearms training, and that ain’t much easier, what with the weight of the ammunition and the way they make you lug them around. I ache in muscles I didn’t even know I had. 

Lights out in two minutes, so I have to stop writing, but please send letters. How’s things around the old place? Do you have enough without my check? Are you eating regularly? Have you kept going to Goldie’s? If you have, say hello to everyone for me, and don’t forget to check on the Rubins and Cohens on Fridays, either. 

Yours,

Bucky

* * *

 

Dear Bucky,

If you’re trying to convince me I don’t want to join you in the army, it’s not going to work, but I’m sorry basic’s been so rough on you. Mrs. Rubin sent along a pair of gloves to keep your fingers warm when you can get away with wearing them -- hopefully they won’t be confiscated. It’s probably good you’re in Wisconsin, though. Your dad’s been looking around for you at church, but he hasn’t come to ask me where you are yet. So far the moratorium on speaking to us has held. 

I’m surviving just fine on my cooking, and I will remind you every time you complain about it after this that you really  _ did _ miss my cooking, and the Missus...es apparently promised you to feed me, anyway, so don’t worry about me starving, like I know you are. 

I’d say the same...but the thing is, I do miss  _ you _ , Bucky. It’s awfully lonely here with everyone gone and the apartment is so quiet, like before. Going to the movies by myself just isn’t as much fun. I’ve found myself just taking the ICOS just to feel like I’m doing something. I’ve been spending even more time at the gym than normal, just to be around  _ people _ , and yes, because I will someday fight for our country. When that happens you can laugh when I send you long letters about basic and I’ll say I told you so.

I won’t lie and say it’s been easy to pay the bills, but I’m old hat at making things stretch, and Mr. Cohen reassured me that we have nothing to worry about. I did offer to watch his dog next week when he and Mr. Rubin go on some sort of trip -- I knew better than to ask questions, but I think they’re really just going to get a room at St George so the Missuses can stay at the Rubins’ house. It makes me feel better to feel like I’m doing something to make up the difference and the Cohens aren’t just letting me stay because they like us. 

Stay strong and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay Buck? I’ll see you soon enough, one way or another.

Your Friend,

Steve

* * *

 

My Dear, Steve

Please tell Mrs. Rubin the gloves are very appreciated, though I don’t get to wear them often. They are probably the least ridiculous nonregulation clothes here. There’s this one idiot in the 107th that is always trying to wear a goddamn _bowler hat_. I call him Dum Dum because it’s less stupid than his real name, and I thought mine was bad! I was grateful to get your letter, but now all the men think I have a girl at home. I told them I don’t, but I don’t think they believed me. If only they knew, right? Luckily I don’t think dad or anyone else will admit it, I’m still the black sheep. 

I miss you too, punk. Don’t let the films fool you, Stevie, it’s miserable here. My hands and arms are all scratched to hell from crawling under barbed wired with a goddamn rifle, trying to make sure that no matter how muddy and covered in snow and who knows what else, that the rifle doesn’t get mud in the breach, because you won’t have to worry about Nazis if your gun blows up on you. I think I’m only resisting pneumonia on sheer will alone and absolute refusal to get sick because I don’t want to get shoved into medical. I hit the cot in the barracks every night wishing for our radiator that only works when you baby it, I’ll tell you that. 

The DI did say I was ‘almost a half-decent shot’ which I believe is Army for ‘crack shot.’ I did get yelled for helping one of the men who had faltered in the march, taking his pack for him when he faltered, but I don’t care, and I told the DI that my father always told me that it was a soldier’s duty to support his brother’s in arms. I nearly forgot the sir at the end, but I might get in trouble further up the chain of command anyway. Don’t think you’d like it in the army, Steve. Lots of the superior officers bully us for not being ‘man enough.’ I keep amusing myself imagining you trying to punch ‘em out after you worked so hard to get here. Another ten mile march in the morning, so I’d best turn in. Keep your head up, Steve.

Yours,

Bucky

* * *

 

Dear Bucky,

I’m sure your fellows probably think this is yet another letter from your nonexistent girl, so feel free to act like it is. They’re probably just jealous you're getting letters and care packages from home. Mrs. Rubin says you are very welcome for the gloves, and to “keep your chin up,  gindele.” Your dad’s continuing to look worried, but still hasn’t asked where you are. I think he suspects, but he’s too afraid to ask. 

I think it’s more likely you’re just immune from getting pneumonia after the times you sat with me, hang what the doctor told you. The men at Goldie’s are still asking after you and putting me through my paces, though they’re not as good as you, Buck. I’m not surprised you’re considered a crack shot, you always took to everything so easily, while I lumbered on behind. I’ll keep on lumbering, though, don’t you worry. I’ll make it out there sometime and help you dig those foxholes.

Your Friend,

Steve


	4. Pocketknives and Fairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky returns home from basic, and shortly after has to leave again, but one more night on the town and some bravery means something can change, right? ...Or not.

Bucky closed his eyes against the light as he rode the final train back to Brooklyn. Somehow he had gotten through basic without anyone the wiser. It had been hard, harder than he had ever anticipated. Bucky just hoped Steve would be at the station to meet him. All he wanted to do was go home, peel off his godforsaken uniform, take a long shower, preferably hot, eat dinner, and be a girl for a night. It was strange how Bucky could go weeks upon weeks without the urge to be a woman again, until he was forced to be stuck as a man with no breaks. 

The train screeched to a halt and Bucky stood, lifting his duffel from the rack, nodding politely back to the old soldiers, the ladies, and the children who nodded to him. Just a little farther. One more long walk, and he could stop being a soldier, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, and just be Bucky, at least for a night. When he stepped off the train onto the platform, his eyes immediately searched for Steve, duffel thrown over his shoulder. For a long and terrifying moment, he thought maybe he had been forgotten despite the sheaf of letters packed away in the duffel, hidden in one of the books he hadn’t had time to read. 

“Buck! Hey Bucky!”

Bucky swung around at the sound of his name and spotted his best friend. “Steve!” He called in reply, crossing the platform. “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Unabashed, Bucky pulled him into a desperate hug, reaffirmation that they had made it this far, if nothing else. 

“You have no idea how good it is to see you, Buck.” Steve agreed. “Come on, time for a family dinner with the Rubins and Cohens. The missuses even managed to scrape together a cake.”

Bucky laughed and that easily, everything was right with the world. He slung an arm over Steve’s shoulders and they started the walk home.

* * *

The first Sunday after Bucky returned from Camp McCoy, he donned his uniform again, for the first time since he had gotten home. It had gotten around that Bucky Barnes was home, and he would be expected to be seen -- and a little prayer certainly couldn’t  _ hurt _ , for all that it had done fuck all for Pop or Stevie’s dad in the Great War. Also, church was just a normal part of the routine. “How do I look?” He asked, holding out his arms, as Steve emerged from his room, dressed in his Sunday best.

Steve smiled, though there was a twist to it. “I’m jealous, Buck. Or shall I call you Sgt. Barnes?”

“Fuck off.” Bucky replied, quite firmly. “Come on, let’s go.”

Arriving at the church, Bucky was on the receiving end of many shoulder slaps and stern nods, and even more after the mass had concluded. Despite never wanting to be in the army, unlike Steve, he couldn’t help but feel a small bubble of pride start to inflate in his chest, at least until he heard his mother start crying. He knew the sound easily enough, and turned just in time to see Rebecca start to walk her back home. The guilt socked him in the gut, but he shook his head and pushed it away. He had cried too. He had stood outside the door, knocking and Lizzie had never opened it. For what? Because Bucky had dared to move in with Steve after Sarah’s death. She didn’t get to see him cry now. It was her own fault she didn’t know. Bucky was about to turn, reaching blindly for Steve, when a hand came down on his shoulder.

“Pop.” Bucky said, slowly, voice scratchy with sudden emotion.

“Bucky.” George Barnes, said quietly. He swallowed hard, and reached into his pocket, fishing around for a moment. “You be careful out there, you hear?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Sure thing, Pop.”

George Barnes shook his head in response, something like a smile crossing his face. “None of that now, I was no officer.” He took Bucky’s hands and slid something into them, holding them both for a moment. “Make me proud. I need to go see to your mother.”

Bucky nodded, and watched him go for a long moment, before looking down into his hand, which held the pocketknife his father was never without.

* * *

“Where is he?” Bucky asked Mrs. Cohen as the woman fussed with the sheitl surrounding Bucky’s head with a halo of curls. “It’s my last night here!” Bucky bit her lip, readjusting the pretty red dress that Mrs. Rubin had given her. Bucky was due to ship out tomorrow, and this was her last chance to be a girl in God knew how long.

“Don’t worry so, _zeeseleh_.” Mrs. Cohen advised. “He’ll be here. Now smile, so I can see the whole picture.”

Bucky gave the woman her best attempt at a smile. 

Mrs. Cohen huffed. “I suppose I’ll see it when Steve gets here.” She said dismissively. “Now, you made sure to pack all your necessaries?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky replied, doing a quick mental onceover of her packed belongings. 

“Good enough.” Mrs. Cohen said finally. 

Five minutes later, the knock came on the Cohen’s door, followed by the yipping of the tiny dog. Bucky straightened and a moment later, Steve walked in with a grin, dressed in his Sunday suit, hair slicked back. “Ready to go, Buck?”

“You’re late, Stevie.” Bucky scolded, trying to swallow past the lump in her throat. “So yes.”

“I got you a flower?” Steve asked, obviously in a plea of forgiveness, and given that Bucky could tell it was from the nearby park, she didn’t scold him on wasting the money. 

“Come on, punk, let’s go.” Bucky said with a sigh. 

“Picture first!” Mrs. Rubin demanded, coming out of the kitchen. “Scooch together now, that’s it.” She snapped a few pictures. “All right, off you go! Have fun, children!”

“Children,” Bucky said, as they left the apartment, grinning.

Steve grinned back. “C’mon, let’s go see what the future will be like, Jemma from Jersey.” 

Bucky laughed and took his hand.

* * *

Bucky had thought they were having a good time, looking at the prototypes, the synthetic man, Stark’s flying car. She had felt as though it was really a date. Just as she was about to screw her courage to the sticking place, and ask Stevie if they could go dancing and if he would...well, be her best guy, he had disappeared. 

Didn’t that just figure. 

Unfortunately for her, she knew exactly where to find Steve Rogers, and sure enough, he was out trying to enlist _ again _ . Sure enough, she stomped off (as well as she could in the ridiculous shoes) and found him staring at the mirror. It made her heartsore. “ You're really gonna do this again?

Steve turned, looking abashed. “Well, it's a fair. I'm gonna try my luck.”

Bucky was suddenly spitting mad, though she tried not to show it. “As who? Steve from Ohio? They'll catch you. Or worse, they'll actually take you.”

“Bucky, come on! There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That's what you don't understand. This isn't about me.” Steve argued, trying to make her understand. “You’re out there, doing it! What if they catch _you?_ ”

“And I wish I was home!” She shouted back. “I wished  _ every night  _ I was back in our little stupid apartment with your boiled everything and our broken table shimmed up with old roof tile, and that scared me every day!”

“Bucky…” Steve said, softly. 

“Whatever.” Bucky said, shaking her head, and giving him a hug. “Going dancing was a stupid idea. I should get some rest before tomorrow. Don’t do anything stupid, punk.” She held him tighter, thinking that if maybe she didn’t let go, this wouldn’t happen, even if he was still just her best friend. 

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you, jerk.” Steve murmured, hugging her back. “Go on, if you’re not home by a reasonable time, the misters will tan my hide.”

Bucky gave a casual, stupid wave over her shoulder as she walked away, knowing she wouldn’t be able to walk away any other way.

“Don’t win the war ‘til I get there!”


End file.
